Each item neatly tucked away into the worn carpetbag. Everything fit, with room to spare. I could not credit it. How could this paltry jumble of worldly possessions be the summation of the man who had been a genius, a hero, and a champion of justice? These were the remnants of any ordinary, commonplace man – never Holmes. This was not the sort of legacy the remarkable man I had called my dearest friend ought to have.

It was this that caused me an even keener grief than the knowledge of my abandonment of him at Reichenbach or even the actual loss of him: that all his accomplishments and successes might in turn vanish from memory. That he himself might be forgotten. Sherlock Holmes deserved better.

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